


Moments of Destiny

by RecklessWriter



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Friendship, Gen, Not Slash, Unrelated chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-12 22:24:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2126766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RecklessWriter/pseuds/RecklessWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One chapter per episode of Merlin, whether it be a missing scene, or a 'what-if' scenario, focusing on the unbreakable friendship between Arthur and Merlin. Chapters are unrelated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moments of Destiny

**Author's Note:**

> Summary pretty much explains it. One chapter per episode of Merlin. This one is a 'what-if' scenario during the Dragon's Call, after Merlin's second encounter w/ Arthur.

**Story #1:** _After the argument Merlin has with Gaius about his magic (where he says he ‘might as well die’), instead of going upstairs, he runs out of the room, where he runs into Arthur…_

* * *

**1.01**

**The Dragon’s Call**

*****

**Maybe You’re Not All Bad**

* * *

_If I can’t practice magic, I might as well die.”_

And immediately following that _lovely_ statement (please note the sarcasm), Merlin brushes past the elderly physician, his eyes now stinging with embarrassing tears, along with the stinging pain of the wounds and bruises inflicted on him (given to him by that arrogant _prat_ of a prince). He stomps out of Gaius’ chambers angrily, very much aware that he must look like a petulant child who didn’t get their way, but he doesn’t care because he’s _frustrated_ and _hurt_ and no one _understands_. Not even Gaius, as much as he pretends to. No one else gets it. No one else is _special_ , not like he is. No one else has to keep to the shadows, to hide who they are, just in order to have the right to live.

What was his mother thinking, sending him here? Camelot is the last place a person of _his sort_ should be. Surely she knew that.

He blinks away the stinging in his eyes, bites down on the burning in the back of his throat. Yes, he can’t use magic, can’t be who he really is, but he isn’t going to cry about it. He’s spent his whole life in Ealdor hiding who he really is, and this is no different. Sure, if he used his magic in Ealdor and someone caught him, while it would have been bad, he wasn’t likely to get _executed_ for it, unlike here under the reign of King Uther. But it makes no difference either way, whatever the consequences. He has been hiding his true self so long, that concealing his powers has become second nature; it, like his magic, is instinctual. That’s not what bothers him. He’ll have no trouble playing the role of normal peasant.

It’s the disappointment that really stings, the bitter feeling of having everything you’ve ever wanted in your grasp, just so it can be snatched cruelly away. When he heard from his mother that she was sending him off to stay with Gaius, who might be able to help him control his magic, he hoped he wouldn’t need to hide anymore, or at least, that he would be able to hide _less_. But then he entered Camelot’s town square, witnessing an execution, and all his hopes became null and void. Even Gaius, who was supposed to _help_ him with his magical ability, has forbidden him from using magic. He feels more constricted from himself here than he did back in Ealdor.

He rubs a hand across his eyes as he continues his sprint from the physician’s chambers, clumsy, not at all aware of where he’s heading or where he currently is. He’s just getting away. He stumbles into a serving boy, who regains his balance by grabbing ahold of a stone pillar. Merlin doesn’t look at him as he passes, just yells an apology over his shoulder while the disgruntled servant yells for him to watch where he’s going.

And that, he supposes, is really where the problem lies. He should have been watching where he is going. But of course, he isn’t. Maybe if he is, then he could have saved himself a lot of aggravation.

Just about a second later, he knocks into another person, but this time he collides with them head-on, and the combined force of impact causes Merlin to go skidding backward, only to land in an undignified heap on the ground.

The world spins, and he sees stars for a moment before blinking his vision clear. From his place on the floor, he looks up to quickly apologize to the man he ran in to, but when he sees the familiar face standing, scowling, above him, the apology immediately dies in his throat.

Of all the people in the _entire bloody castle_ to run into, it just _has_ to be Prince Prat.

He really has the worst luck known to mankind. Really.

* * *

He wasn’t watching where he was going. Which, granted, as a prince and a knight of Camelot, is a pretty reckless and unbelievably unobservant thing to _not_ be doing (but it’s not as though he needs to worry about being attacked in his own _castle_ , at least he hopes not, he doesn’t think the security has gotten _that_ lax), but he’s still getting over the humiliation he’s suffering from after that mere _servant_ nearly managed to beat him (when had he become so _clumsy_? Tripping over mysteriously appearing crates and ropes…), so he’s not in his most attentive state of mind when he knocks straight into the younger boy, knocking him off balance and sending him sprawling on the ground.

He acknowledges that the collision is partly his fault, but he’s in a bad mood, and he’s never had the most patience, especially when it comes to bumbling peasants, so he snaps at the person, “Hey! Watch where you’re—“ Then he looks down and sees the face of the boy he knocked into. Recognition dawns, and he quickly goes from annoyed to even more annoyed. He scowls down at the form on the floor. “Oh,” he sneers, “it’s _you_.”

The second time he runs into the boy can be passed off as coincidence, but the third time— _third time_! In _two days_!—is utterly ridiculous. It’s as if some greater force, almost like _fate_ , or _destiny,_ keeps insisting on pulling them together (and if that’s the case, then destiny must truly hate him). But Arthur’s never believed in such foolish notions. His future is what he makes it, he believes, and his choices are his choices. As far as he’s concerned, destiny is a non-entity to him, so he quickly puts the fleeting thought from his mind before he has a chance to think on it farther.

He smirks down at the boy—Merlin (what a _ridiculous_ name! Isn’t Merlin the name of a bird?)—and says, “Finally decide to lower yourself down with all the rest of your fellow peasants, have you?”

Merlin _really_ isn’t in the mood. But he isn’t one to be baited and keep silent. “There’s nothing wrong with being a peasant,” he says. “What, you think that just because we don’t dress as well as you do and aren’t born into good money that that makes us beneath you? That your title makes you better? I don’t care that you’re a prince; as far as I’m concerned, you’re just an arrogant bully.”

Arthur stares, shocked, though he doesn’t know why. In these past two days, he’s been insulted by this one person more than he’s probably been insulted in his entire life. You think that he’d know to expect it from Merlin by now, but each off-hand comment thrown his way is still just as surprising. He’s never been treated with such a disregard for respect before. And yet here is Merlin, nothing but a commoner, who doesn’t think twice about telling Arthur what he thinks, whose blunt honesty is unnerving and discomforting, and the prince doesn’t know what to make of it; doesn’t know what to make of _him_. It’s offensive, disrespectful, insolent… and also, strangely intriguing. To not be judged by his title for once, but just as a person, it’s an eye-opener—not that he’d ever admit it.

But instead of voicing any of that, he simply says, “You can’t call me that,” though he sounds more bemused than offended, “I’m your prince. You’ll treat me with respect.”

“Why don’t you try earning it first,” is the reply, and Arthur is once again struck speechless by the nerve of the boy. “Besides, you’re not _my_ prince. I live in a village within the kingdom of Essetir. That’s past Camelot’s borders.”

Arthur grits his teeth, and snaps, “I _know_ where Essetir is located, thank you very much!” Of course he does. That sort of simple geography was taught to him when he was naught but a boy. From the age of ten, he could have pointed out the locations of all the kingdoms within Albion. He certainly doesn’t need a lesson on it from a _servant_. And a bloody annoying one, at that.

After a pause, he adds, “And just because you weren’t born under Camelot’s rule doesn’t mean you can slander me in such a way. Regardless of where you’re from, you’re in Camelot now. Which means you follow its laws.”

“Oh. So it’s a law not to speak what I perceive to be a truth.”

Arthur glowers at the warlock that still lays at his feet. “I am _not_ a arrogant bully. You don’t even know me.” Then, giving him an exasperated look, he offers Merlin a reluctant hand. “And get up off of the floor. You look like an idiot—or rather, _more_ of an idiot.”

Merlin stares at the offered hand for a moment, as if he’s not sure what it’s there for, unsure, but then he reluctantly lets the prince haul him to his feet. He winces as he does so, his injuries from the mace fight in the market stinging from being jostled slightly. This doesn’t get passed Arthur, who raises an eyebrow at the pained face he makes.

“What’s wrong with you?” he inquires. There’s no real concern in his voice, but no malice either; the tone neutral, apathetic.

“Nothing,” Merlin says, trying to walk away. But Arthur, who knows what pain looks like when he sees it, grabs the boy’s shoulder, making the grip purposefully tight so he winces under the pressure applied to his bruises.

Arthur frowns. “Doesn’t seem like nothing,” he says, not sure why he cares. “I’ve been in many fights in my life, I know pain when I see it.”

“Fine,” Merlin snaps, wrenching his shoulder out of the blonde’s grip, trying not to hiss in pain as he does, “If you _must_ know, you and your bloody mace battered me up pretty well earlier. Happy?”

Arthur’s eyes widen. “ _I_ did this to you?”

“Yes. Going to gloat about it, are you? ‘Oh, look at _Mer_ lin, he’s such a weakling, he can’t even—‘”

“No I’m not going to gloat about it, you dolt!” Arthur cuts the warlock off. His eyes are narrowed, irritated, and for a moment he seems to be almost warring with himself, before he comes to a decision, tightly grabbing Merlin’s arm and making to pull him off to the side, down one of the corridors. “Come here!”

“Ow—hey!” Merlin yells as he’s manhandled roughly down the hallway. “What’re you doing? Lemme go!”

“Shut _up_ ,” the prince hisses in reply. “Can’t you ever be quiet? Just follow me.”

“And why would I do that?” Arthur tightens his grip on the boy’s already bruising arm, and Merlin lets out a quiet hiss. “Alright, alright! _Ouch_ —I’m coming!”

Arthur pulls him down the stone corridor, which is empty except for a single serving boy who is making his way down the hall in the opposite direction, carrying a tray with a bowl of water and a cloth, most likely meant to sterilize cuts. The boy looks to be as young as twelve years, and Arthur stops him as he passes with a raise of his hand.

“Hey, you! Servant!” he calls.

Merlin rolls his eyes at the rude way Arthur addressed the young boy. _Prat._

The boy stops and turns, eyes widening as he recognizes the one who stopped him to be the prince. “Your—Your H—Highness,” he stammers nervously, bowing his head.

“Where are you taking that?” Arthur nods at the tray.

“I… I was ordered to t-take it to Lord Uld-Uldwin’s chambers, s-sire.”

The prince gives the serving boy a curt nod. “Right. I’ll be needing it,” he demands in a no-questions-asked sort of voice.

The boy’s eyes widen. Merlin feels a bit sorry for him. “B-But, sire! Lord Uldwin—“

“Fetch him a new one,” Arthur says dismissively. “If he asks what took you so long, just mention the prince needed a favor, he’s sure to understand.”

The boy nods jerkily. He hands the tray to Arthur and then scurries away down the hall.

Merlin says, “What—“

“Sit down,” Arthur tells him in a clipped voice, pushing him down onto a bench up against the wall. He sets the tray with the bowl of water down next to him. “Take your shirt off.”

Merlin stares, and then blinks at him dumbly. “I—what?”

“Take. Off. Your. Shirt,” he repeats, as if talking to a particularly dense five-year-old. When Merlin still just continues to stare at him blankly, Arthur sighs and clarifies, “I’m going to clean your wounds. I need you to remove your shirt, so I can inspect the damage.”

“Oh.” Feeling confused, Merlin moves to do what he says. He pulls the fabric over his head, wincing, exposing his bruised torso. “Why?”

“Why what?” Arthur asks, before his eyes widen as he takes in Merlin’s back, which is bruised all over, as a result of the fight in the market place. His shoulder blades are the worst, scraped and scabbed over, even bleeding slightly in places, and bruising. Arthur looks horrified for a split second, before he quickly schools his features into a look of indifference. He takes the cloth from the tray and dips it in the bowl of water, before pressing the damp cloth against the boy’s left shoulder without warning. Merlin hisses at the sting, sending the prince a venomous glare.

“Why are you doing this,” Merlin clarifies his previous question, looking intently at the blonde who is determinedly avoiding his gaze. “I thought you hated me.”

“I don’t hate you,” he says quietly, surprising the warlock. He continues to clean the wounds, putting on more pressure as he sterilizes the cuts, washing away the blood and dirt. His hands are surprisingly gentle, trying to cause as little pain as possible. “I don’t particularly like you,” he admits, “but I don’t hate you. For that I’d have to actually know you, though you haven’t exactly made a stellar first impression.”

Merlin lets out a slight laugh, though he’s looking at Arthur in that curious, intent way that the prince finds he doesn’t like. Arthur presses a bit too hard on an open cut, and Merlin seizes up, muttering profanities under his breath. Arthur nearly says ‘sorry’, but bites his tongue before the word makes its way out of his mouth. Princes don’t apologize, and certainly not to lowly peasants.

“But I still don’t understand,” says Merlin, confused, shaking his head. “Even if you _don’t_ hate me, you certainly don’t have to do this. I can clean my own wounds, I live with the physician, after all. You don’t have to…”

“Shut up,” Arthur says mildly, dipping the cloth in the basin of water again and wringing it out. “Turn around,” he orders, and Merlin begrudgingly does so, so Arthur has better access to his right shoulder, and turns his attention to cleaning out the dirt that has started infecting the open wounds. It stings, but Merlin tries not to react.

“For what it’s worth,” Arthur begins after a long moment of silence, “me doing this for you has nothing to do with liking you. It’s about righting a wrong. It was… _wrong_ …of me to attack you before—even if you were asking for it. As a Knight of Camelot, and as a prince, I have taken an oath of honor and nobility, and there is a certain code I am obligated to follow. I am bond by that oath, and my conduct towards you today was unforgiveable. Though I do think that it would do you good to get a bit of sense beat into you, there is nothing honorable in attacking a man who has not been trained properly to defend himself. I should not have taken my strength out on someone far weaker and inferior than I myself am.”

Merlin blinks at him, marveling, somewhat enviously, at Arthur’s ability to insult him, to call him _weak_ and _inferior_ , yet at the same time, be able to sound completely sincere in his apology (or rather, a half-assed attempt at an apology).

“So basically,” Merlin sums up, “you’re saying it was the wrong thing to do because I’m a puny weakling who has no chance against you, ever.”

Arthur smirks. “Exactly. Glad you’re catching on.”

Merlin rolls his eyes, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Prat.”

“Idiot.”

“Bully.”

“Girl.”

Merlin’s mouth falls open at this last insult, and Arthur lets out a mocking laugh, grinning at his look of offense. “Oh, I’m sorry, _Mer_ lin. Have I hurt your delicate, girlish feelings?”

The warlock narrows his eyes, trying to feign anger at the contemptuous prince’s words, instead of showing his actual amusement. Why is he suddenly not feeling so offended and irritated by the constant insults and put downs?

Perhaps because… because Merlin can reluctantly admit that… that maybe Prince Prat isn’t _quite_ as bad as he first thought.

Not that he isn’t still awful. Just a bit _less_ awful.

“I’m _not_ a girl,” says Merlin, making an effort to sound assertive. “And just so you know, if you weren’t the Prince, then I would so get you back for that comment.”

“Hasn’t stopped you before. No one else I’ve met would have ever dared call the Prince of Camelot an ass to his face, let alone actually try to throw a punch at him.” A wry grin is directed his way. “I don’t know if that makes you brave, or just incredibly stupid.”

“Oh, brave, definitely.” Arthur actually does laugh this time.

“You don’t strike me as the brave sort, Merlin. More of the… run-and-hide-in-the-face-of-danger type.” Arthur’s finished cleaning Merlin’s wounds now, and he wrings out the cloth and sets it on the tray beside the basin. He picks up his discarded shirt and chucks it at the warlock to put back on, grin dropping to adopt a more serious expression. “Look, that’s all I can do for your injuries. I’ve been taught the basics on sterilizing cuts, but if they’ve already been infected then you’ll need Gaius. I’ve done all I can.”

Merlin nods, “I know,” wincing as he brings his arms up to slip the shirt back over his head. He pins Arthur with a grateful look; he never thought he would actually feel thankful for something the blonde did, but he does. “Arthur—thanks for this.”

Arthur rolls his eyes as his proper title was once again forgotten by the gangly boy when speaking to him. Though strangely, it doesn’t bother him much. It is nice to be just a person to someone, instead of a prince. “That’s _Prince_ Arthur to you. Stop talking to me as if we’re friends.”

He grins. “Me? Friends with _you_? I thought we’d already been over this. You’re too much of an ass, your _M_ _ajesty._ ”

Arthur’s quite sure that if he rolls his eyes any more they’ll eventually fall out of his head. “Watch it. I can have you put into the stocks for that. Although I’m not sure it will do much good considering how much you seemed to be enjoying it last time.”

Arthur rises from the bench, and Merlin rises after him more slowly, his muscles stiff and sore. Arthur picks up the tray with the basin and cloth and thrusts it into Merlin’s arms, saying, “And dispose of this, will you,” Merlin opens his mouth, outraged, and Arthur cuts in, “That’s an _order_ , Merlin.”

Merlin huffs, but takes the tray. “Yes, _sire_.” He turns around to walk away, turning to look back at the prince one more time, and he really should have stopped moving because he once again bumps into a _third_ person. He yelps, and there is a gasp of surprise from the woman he knocked into, and the tray clatters out of his grip, the basin of water tipping and spilling over the lady’s expensive-looking gown before shattering upon impact with the ground. Merlin bites back a curse, and immediately drops to the ground to begin cleaning up the mess he caused.

Gritting his teeth at the boy’s clumsiness, Arthur forces his expression into one that is apologetic as he turns to face the Lady Merlin bumped into. “Lady Helen,” for it is indeed Lady Helen, gripping the now-wet fabric of her dress as she glares down at the bumbling Merlin, “my sincerest apologies. This is absolutely intolerable, I hope you can forgive this fool’s clumsiness. He’s an idiot, and shall of course be punished for acting in such a manner to a beloved guest in Camelot such as yourself.”

Merlin shoots Arthur a glare from the floor where he’s collecting the glass, careful not to cut himself, but then his glaze travels to Lady Helen, and he watches her closely. Something about her just doesn’t sit right with Merlin. He remembers the poppet and the old-looking book he found in her room, not to mention the flash of… _something…_ he saw out of the corner of his eye. There’s something not right with her, it’s like he can sense it.

“That’s… that’s quite alright, Your Majesty,” she says, but the way her teeth are gritted and how she casts a heated glare down at Merlin makes it obvious that to her it’s anything but _alright_ , and she just doesn’t want to offend Camelot’s royalty. “It is only water, it will dry. No damage done.”

Merlin narrows his eyes at the beautiful Lady. He doesn’t like the way she looks at Arthur—it unnerves him. The curling of her lips as she looks at him, in what’s supposed to be a genuine smile, but looks more like a gleeful smirk, something vindictive and promising glinting behind her eyes. She’s hiding something behind this pleasant façade of hers—Merlin’s kept enough secrets in his life to know what it looks like by now.

But Arthur, as oblivious and unobservant as he is, doesn’t notice the way she looks him over, doesn’t notice anything wrong, and just inclines his head in a respectful gesture. “Still, there shall be consequences for such incompetence. Merlin will be punished for this.”

Merlin’s mouth falls open. “What! But—“

Arthur shoots him a sharp look. “ _Shut up, Merlin,_ ” he hisses through his teeth.

Merlin sighs. Why does he even bother?

Lady Helen curtsies, and it’s a bit clumsy for someone of her class, almost as if she’s not used to doing it. “Thank you, sire, and now I must take my leave. I look forward to performing for you and the King tonight at the celebrations.”

“And I look forward to it,” says Arthur suavely. “I’m sure you will not disappoint.” He steps aside and makes a gesture with his arm indicating her to pass, and Lady Helen hurries away, the suspicious smirk still curling at her lips. Merlin keeps his eyes locked on her retreating back until she turns a corner out of sight. Picking up a shard of glass, distracted as he is, he manages to cut himself.

“Ouch,” he hisses, sticking his finger in his mouth. Arthur gives him a fleeting look, rolling his eyes.

“You really are hopeless, aren’t you, Merlin? Foolish idiot. And here I was starting to think you might actually not be that bad.”

Merlin’s head whips up at that, surprised. Had he heard him right? “I’m sorry… what was that? Was the Prince of Camelot actually paying me a _compliment_?”

He scowls. “Don’t think too much of it. Obviously I was wrong.”

Merlin finishes picking up his mess, standing with the tray. “If you say so,” he says. He looks the prince over intently, as if trying to see past his carefully constructed façade, and Arthur shifts uncomfortably under the scrutiny.

“Though you probably don’t care what I think… I guess I can agree with that. As it turns out, you’re not _all_ that bad… for a prat that is.”

Merlin heads away down the hall, and before Arthur knows what he’s doing, he’s opened his mouth and called after the boy, “Merlin!” He turns his head around, and Arthur tells him, reluctantly, “I suppose…maybe you’re not all bad, either. For an idiot.”

A blooming warmth fills Merlin’s chest at the words, and his whole face _lights up_. He gives the prince a blinding smile. And, feeling severely better than he did when he left Gaius’ chambers, he skips off down the corridor.

Who knew the only thing he needed to cheer him up from getting beaten by Prince Prat was another ( _literal_ ) run-in with the prat himself?

* * *

**Next:** Valiant

_Arthur is quite fine with ignoring his ex-manservant’s claims that Valiant is using magic to get him killed in the tournament, and he’s even more fine with ignoring said manservant’s existence altogether. That is, until he takes notice of the finger-shaped bruises on Merlin’s neck. This, the prince finds, is impossible to ignore. Even if he does hate the insufferable, strangely endearing idiot._

**Author's Note:**

> Won't be updated regularly updated. Sorry if Arthur seems a bit OOC... this is my first Merlin fic, and I found it harder to write Arthur as a pre-Merlin-spoiled-bully than I thought I would. Anyway, please leave kudos and comments, and let me know if you enjoyed it :)


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